


there is thunder in our hearts

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [18]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Autistic Hornet, Autistic Quirrel, Chronic Pain, Flashbacks, Gen, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Amputation, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Queerplatonic Relationships, Suicidal Thoughts, hornet's perspective, title from running up that hill (a deal with god) by kate bush, you know the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Hornet and Quirrel set off for Greenpath. It's not particularly easy going.
Relationships: Hornet & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957039
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	there is thunder in our hearts

Hornet doesn’t expect Quirrel to make it past the Crossroads.

That’s not a judgement on him. He’s capable with his nail, and he cares about her siblings. That alone would make her willing to suspend all criticism of him, and he helps his image further by being  _ bewilderingly _ kind.

In fact, Hornet expects that Quirrel’s stamina rivals her own, due to sheer stubbornness and economy of movement more so than pure physical prowess. 

Where Hornet remains light on her feet, always on the precipice of motion, Quirrel only moves when he has to, stretching his strength out longer than it seems like it should.

But she can see him shaking on his feet, even before they make it out of Dirtmouth. He’s slept, since the chaos that had brought the five of them together, but she can’t imagine that any of those short rests were enough.

“Quirrel,” Hornet says, when he slides down the chain of the well linking Dirtmouth and the Crossroads and nearly falls onto his face. “I hope you don’t think that I require this of you.”

Quirrel straightens, and the effort it takes him makes Hornet’s joints twinge in sympathy. Still, he  _ smiles _ at her, as though he isn’t in any pain at all. It makes her want to shake him. “I chose to help. It’s not a question of requirement.”

Hornet doesn’t bother to hide her sigh, but she lets the matter rest. 

Deflated pustules of Infection squelch beneath their feet, and Hornet can’t help but think of the sponginess of her sibling’s carapace as she cleaned the rot out of them with her hands. 

Her stomach turns, and anything she was thinking of saying to Quirrel falls by the wayside as she tries to swallow her nausea.

Quirrel stops her as they’re about to jump from the ledge of the path onto the hanging platforms, his hand hovering over her arm more so than touching it. Even his hands are shaking, the claw-pads brushing the fabric of her cloak intermittently as he does his best not to actually grab her.

“Are you all right?” he asks, the stupid observant creature, in that gentle voice of his, and something in Hornet just…  _ breaks _ .

She doesn’t cry, or freeze, or flinch, or even start spinning her nail, but somehow Quirrel notices anyway, and takes one of her hands in both of his.

“We’re safe, Hornet,” he says, low and soothing. He’s shaking, but maybe she is too, and his hands are gentle on her fingers and wrist, rubbing the tension away. “We’re safe, your siblings are safe.”

“We’re not,” Hornet says, in a tight, tiny voice that doesn’t sound like hers, instead of saying that between the five of them there isn’t one that wouldn’t lie down and die if given half an excuse to, or how appealing the gap between the ledge and the edge of the nearest platform looks. “There’s no such thing as safe.”

Quirrel doesn’t argue with her, but his arms are around her now, and she doesn’t know how they ended up there. He’s not quite big enough and doesn’t have enough arms to hold her like her mother did but he’s trying, without even knowing.

She turns, so her back is to her chest, and he obligingly wraps his arms around her front to hug her into the bulk of him, and now he really feels like her mother, and if Hornet hadn’t wasted all her tears a long time ago, she could just about cry.

“I’m here,” Quirrel says, instead of trying to tell her that she’s wrong about safety being a ruthless lie only grubs and fools believe. “I’m here. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Hornet goes limp. She drops her head back against Quirrel’s chest, and lets him bear her weight, arms going limp. She shuts her eyes—two, four, six, until just the tiny slits beneath her primary eyes are left open.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there. She isn’t thinking. She’s wandering the maze of her own mind, searching for her composure, her strength, for the courage her mother bequeathed her.

When she finds it, she settles onto her feet again. Quirrel is at once steady and unsteady behind her—solid and whole, but shaking. 

Still, he offers no complaint when she takes his hand, wraps an arm around his back, throws her needle, and swings them both across the gap.

It’s not exactly graceful—his weight unbalances her, and she’s dangerously low on soul to be using her silk, but she doesn’t want to stare at the sheer drop and the sickly stickiness of the Infection’s remains for any longer than she has to.

They slide into a pile of moss at the mouth of the Greenpath entrance, Hornet’s needle clatters into stone, and Quirrel squeaks like a TikTik as his back hits the ground.

Hornet giggles, despite herself.

After a moment, so does Quirrel.

“Ow,” he says, lightheartedly. “That was not your best idea, dear.”

He called her  _ dear. _ Hornet wants to flail her arms about that, but she has more control than that. Instead, she picks herself up, helps Quirrel to his feet, and laces their fingers together as they start into Greenpath.

She realizes, approximately a dozen steps later, that Quirrel doesn’t have hands to spare the way she does.  _ Why _ does she always forget that particular part of her bastard father’s requirements.

Still, Quirrel holds her hand, the other resting on the hilt of his nail, and Hornet’s heart ties itself up in little knots.

Despite their tumble, they make it to Greenpath without much issue. Quirrel gathers armfuls of moss and vines, while Hornet beats down the Fool Eaters with her needle. They have to travel slowly, to avoid the thorns and acid, but they make good progress, and there’s hardly anything hostile in their path.

There’s more jumping involved than Hornet would like, mostly for Quirrel’s sake, but they do eventually find their way to the place Ghost said they would meet them.

They’re already there when Quirrel and Hornet arrive.

There’s a soft white flower lying atop the mask of the vessel that died there. Its petals look delicate.

Quirrel freezes up beside her at the sight of them, then drops down the ledge and goes to them, swifter and surer than she’s seen him since they disappeared at the start of this little journey.

He sweeps them up in his arms and presses his forehead to theirs; affectionate and sweet.

Hornet can’t seem to stop smiling.


End file.
